I’m not a big fan of brands. I know that’s the big push in social media right now: branding yourself, but I think it’s kinda missing the point. What happened to writing because you love to write?

Anyway, I digress.

I was recently gifted a necklace from Tiffany & Co, a place that I’m fortunate enough to own many pieces of jewelry from, although not the type of jewelry that screams, “I bought this at Tiffany & Co,” because I’m not a fan of advertising for brands. Even brands I love.

(yes, I know I have an FCUK sweatshirt, but come on. That’s Comedy Gold)

The necklace was a gift from Dave’s previous employer for 5 years of dedicated service. That necklace is not enough.

I didn’t talk much about the problems I had with Dave’s job; not when so many of my Pranksters were facing far bigger economic issues than my own. I didn’t want to hurt anyone who reads my blog by complaining about my piddly problems.

Besides, I know better than to discuss money on blogs. It’s not classy. (we ALL know I put the “ass” in “classy”)

But I did have problems. Big ones. Bigger than I could have explained.

Like anything big, it started small. Dinners left cold as he had to take care of some work issue or another. Movies half-watched, leaving me on the couch alone, wondering if he’d be back to finish. Eventually, I learned that he wasn’t coming back.

I stopped waiting.

Work was what mattered to him and by proxy, it should matter to me, too. I mean, I told myself, it put the roof over my head and food in my mouth, and really, so what if my partner is emotionally checked out even when he’s sitting next to me? So many people had it so much worse. How could I be upset?

But I was upset. I was hurt. I felt abandoned…because I had been.

Rather than things getting better over time, they got worse. The kids and I became horrible distractions, things that got between Dave and work, and he’d snap at us for asking simple questions like, “when will you be done?” or “what do you want for dinner?”

I was known as a “(insert company name) Widow” at age twenty-five.

He started a new job last week, right after gifting me the Tiffany & Co necklace.

I’ve wondered on and off what I should do with it; something that was given by the very company who kept me in house and home but without a real partner. I considered selling it. I considered donating it. I considered marching it into the (insert company name) offices and giving it back; telling them that it wasn’t worth nearly enough.

In the end, I’ve decided exactly what I’m going to do with it. I’m going to get it engraved.

What’s it going to say?

“SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH.”

It seems only fitting.

Purchased at the pharmacy on Saturday night:

• 1 box vinyl gloves (in a kicky purple!)

• 1 bottle Maalox regular

• 1 bottle Maalox extra-strength

• 1 bottle body lotion

• 1 bottle Imodium

• 1 bottle Pedialyte

• Tin of Bag Balm

• 1 box Chewable Pepto-Bismol

• Air Freshener Spray

The teenage cashier looked mortified as she rang up my purchases until I said, “oh we’re just having a party tonight. Celebrate the whole Jesus-Thing.”

Then she looked very, very frightened.

————

How was YOUR Easter, Pranksters?

I heard through The Twitter that there was some stupid mess over a commercial involving a mother painting her young son’s toenails. Apparently, there was some outrage over it. Who the fuck is outraged by such a thing?

Also: I’ve never seen it because I prefer to be smug without proof that the commercial sucks.

A loyal prankster (thank you Charlene) sent the offending ad into me.

It’s this:

Um. How inoffensive is that? It’s fucking CUTE.

I used to paint my son’s toenails because, well, he asked me to, and why not? He was a little boy and if he liked pretty toenails (like Mom’s), who was I to deny him? It was charming, really.

When my eldest was five, I got pregnant with his brother. So, I bought him a doll of his very own to play with. He loved that doll, “Seth,” and somewhere, Seth, a little gnawed upon, perhaps, still lives in my house. It took me ages to find him a doll that wasn’t swaddled in all things pink. Apparently, toy manufacturers aren’t keen on dolls dressed in blue.

Happily, I took no end of grief for Seth. My son will probably grow up to be a father and when he does, he’ll know how to properly care for a baby.

When I was pregnant with Amelia, Seth got a friend, “Amelia.” Another doll for both of the boys to care for. And they did, properly carrying their dolls around, feeding them with play bottles and pushing them around in their respective strollers.

(okay, Alex frequently tried to poke out the doll’s eyes. So?)

Again, I took no end of grief for it. I just rolled my eyes. Like dolls are going to “make” my boys gay or something.

(and if they are gay, well, so? I’d be fine with a gay son OR daughter)

For Christmas one year, I bought my son a doctor kit (by the aforementioned logic, my kid should grow up to be a doctor now, right?) to go with his dolls.

I didn’t notice until I was getting ready to wrap it up for Christmas:

Dear Fisher-Price,

Boys play with dolls, too.

Love,

AB

I got pretty Furious George about it. But it was Christmas, so I just ripped the tag off and wrapped it up. My sons? They loved the shit out of it.

I got a marginal amount of shit when I dressed Alex as a butterfly for Halloween this year. Much less than I’d anticipated, actually. I mean, he was three; he loves butterflies AND beating the shit out of things. If he wanted to go as a ballerina, I’d let him do that, too.

For his fourth birthday, Alex got some furniture for their dollhouse. He’s got a wild imagination and the stories he comes up with while playing with their dollhouse are incredible.

More furniture = full of the win.

Until I looked at the back.

Dear Target:

Being a hostess is bullshit.

Fondly,

AB

I do have a vagina and I’m not a “hostess.” In fact, my imagination sucks ass. You’d be shocked by how shitty my imagination is and what little desire I have to become a “hostess.”

No amount of doll furniture will change THAT.

Being a hostess may be bullshit.

Painted nails, however, are not.

Leaving this morning, this is what my phoenix tattoo looked like:

And this is what I came home with:

I’m a little orange in this shot, but I assure you I’m neither an Oompa Loompa OR a spray-tan addict. I just need better lighting.

Also: I’m going back to for color in July. Because THAT is how far out my tattoo artist books.

Also, Also: OUCH.

I’m off to get my tattoo today. What did I decide upon? YOU’LL HAVE TO WAIT AND FIND OUT. I’ll put up pictures as soon as humanly possible.

That is, if I don’t die in a fiery tornado of terror.

As you can see, I may very well perish.

Let’s see what the Weather Channel is REALLY saying about the storms today:

Well, okay. If I die, I can use Yes That Can Be My Next Tweet to keep my Twitter account active.

I mean, this sounds like something I would say:

It’s freakish how spot-on the thing is.

Catch you on the flip-side, Pranksters. Also: HOLD ME.

I came to the End of The Internet on Friday. I was searching for a laptop bag, right? And it turns out that laptop bags are the fugliest thing on the planet. Well, at least, the ones I could find.

Hence, the End of The Internet.

But I get all kinds of pissed off when I can’t find something that should be so simple, so I spent most of the day flopping around indignantly, occasionally shaking my fists at The Internet Gods, who had, for the first time, failed me.

After my daughter came home from preschool, she climbed up onto my indignant lap and demanded to look at what I’d been looking at. Which happened to be the kate spade website.

She and I spent a good while perusing ridiculously expensive purses, which, apparently, she, like her mother, is enamored by.

Eventually, she slithered off my frustrated lap and stood on her head on the floor next to me. Seeing a perfect opportunity to teach her some gymnastics, I rolled her over, helping her perform her first somersault. Delighted, she stood up, clapped her hands, yelled, “YAY!” and then begged me to do it again. So I did. We probably did twenty somersaults together before it was time for bed.

And it was walking up the stairs that I noticed something. The scar on the back of her head was bright purple.

Now, she has a skull implant there, covered by a thin layer of imperfect scalp skin (thank YOU, neural tube defects), upon which no hair will ever grow. The scar is fairly visible, although it often looks like her part is just extra-long.

She’s also got a couple of birthmarks on her face, common for kids with midline skull abnormalities, all of which turn from mildly discolored to extremely red whenever she becomes Furious George (which, since she’s my kid, is fairly often).

But I’d never seen her skull turn that purplish shade before. Immediately, I thought of what a dumbass move it was to do somersaults with a kid who has a fucking skull implant.

I dragged her into the bathroom, where the light was a bit better, and took a closer look. It could be something…and it could be nothing. Either way, I was right back in that birthing room, delivering a sick baby again. Only this time, it really WAS my fault.

I called the doctor on call, snotting and crying all over the phone, as I kept her up well-past her bedtime, to assess her level of consciousness. When I realized that she seemed to be just fine, the purplishness had subsided, I decided to put her to bed.

Then I checked on her every forty-five minutes for the rest of the night.

The next morning, the on-call doctor finally called back. Apparently, the answering service sucks a fat one. “Keep an eye out,” she said, “for any other signs of head injury. Vomiting, loss of consciousness, swelling, bruising, irritability.”

Okay, this I could do.

The following evening, I put her in bed, where she promptly barfed everywhere.

Shit, I thought briefly, until I remembered that my own guts had been through hell that week. Okay, I told myself, it’s a flu-bug. She’ll probably be up half the night barfing her guts out.

But she wasn’t.

She got up late the following morning and ate a quick breakfast with her brother.

Then, on the way to the Computer Store, she yacked again. A full 14 hours after her initial vomiting episode. Which, to me, was a Very Bad Sign.

Off to the ER we went. After several very long hours, it seemed that was simply some very bad timing. A flu-bug was the most likely culprit for her illness.

She’s been grounded until her sixteenth birthday.

That is, after I buy her a pony and a Porsche.

————

I have a new column up every Thursday at CafeMom. It’s called (barely) Surviving Parenthood. It’s full of the awesome.

———–

Speaking of Full of the Awesome, I was thinking about using THAT for a shirt design. Is that lame?

Also: TODAY is Tax Day, not April 15, which, hi, why didn’t someone tell me it was changing? That’s bullshit.

Anyway, the winner of my shirt giveaway:

(P.S: if you’re interested, they’re giving away a couple of my shirts on Band Back Together, too.)

Dear Aunt Becky,

Who is the Mormon-Faced kid from American Idol?

Oh you mean the one I talked about on Friday?

(frantically googles)

MORMON FACE.

That guy. Kris Allen. He’s the Mormon-Faced kid from American Idol.

Tell me I’m not right.

Dear Aunt Becky,

This is probably a stupid question, but…

I would love to post on Band Back Together, but I can’t figure out how. Do you have to register on the website? Is there some kind of “submit post” button I’m missing?

Am I just a huge fucking idiot who can’t figure out something totally obvious?

That is most assuredly NOT a stupid question, Prankster. It’s a weird concept and we’re working on a new site design to make it a little…easier for everyone involved. But I don’t have it up yet, so just bear with me. (also: April’s BB2G theme is up!)

So, you go to the main screen, Band Back Together.com, right?

Looks like this:

For the how to contribute guidelines, well, it’s a little hard to read, but that’s all the boring stuff about how to write a wordpress post (it’s a brief, semi-decent wordpress tutorial), disclaimers, all the other stuff.

It also has a brief explanation of how to register for the site, which you must do to post anything. This box is found on the sidebar of the blog. Your other WordPress accounts will not (unfortunately) transfer, so you must register here.

It’ll take you to a log-in page. Register there.

You can change your password at any time, but your username cannot, so choose something you like.

When you are done, click the Register Button.

You must use a valid email address.

Why?

Your password (a jumbled up mixture of letters and numbers) will be emailed to you. Once you log-in for the first time, change your password.

Once on the site, click “Profile” from the sidebar. From there, you have a ton of different options.

If you want a link to your blog, add both first and last name (can be made up) and blog URL if you want your posts to link back to your blog.

If you want a custom avatar, instead of the generic monster-y looking one WordPress will assign you, go here.

If you need more instructions for how to post on a WordPress blog, please go here, to the wordpress tutorial. Any other questions, let me know.

Dear Aunt Becky,

My (adult) sisters are fighting – the kind of clawing at your soul, crying wracking sobs because it seems like it’ll never be ok, echoes forever fighting that you hope never to be a part of, ever.  Of course, each thinks the other is to blame, and (of course), they are both a little bit right.  Each of them has done hurtful things to the other, and the repercussions of those hurtful things seem never ending.

One did apologize and try to stitch a relationship back together, but it was thrown back in her face; the other thinks she has done nothing to apologize for and feels our family is blaming her for sticking up for herself.

It is just one of those situations where I am totally helpless, and yet everyone expects me to have the answer.  I’d like to help them, they’ve both asked me for help, but I am completely clueless as to how to do that when everything I say seems – to them – as if I am taking sides.  I don’t want to take sides, I just want things to get better.

I thought you, or your Pranksters, might have some suggestions for helping two sisters, who I know love each other but are just so hurt right now, to come back together.

I really appreciate any ideas you might have ~ thanks!

Sighs.

Families.

Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em.

Sorry to hear you’re being put in the middle of something that doesn’t have a thing to do with you. That’s a pile of bullshit right there.

Now, I’m sure the Pranksters will have plenty to say, but my advice to you is to make it clear that you are not taking sides. Unless you want to ally yourself with one of your sisters (thereby alienating the other), I don’t see any other alternative beyond declaring yourself neutral.

You’re not responsible for fixing any problems but your own, no matter how much you want to. Sometimes, the best thing to do is to stay back and let the fight take it’s course.

I’m really sorry I don’t have a better answer.

Pranksters?

I’m getting a tattoo on Tuesday (win!) but I’m not entirely sure what I want underneath, except that I do NOT want fire. I’d rather get a poorly misspelled name than fire under the phoenix tattoo. But you know, I need something else under there. A scene.

HALP ME, PRANKSTERS.

I NEED YOUR BRILLIANCE.

Now, I don’t watch much reality TV. Putting twenty people in an isolated bubble for six to nine months and expecting them to perform incredible acts and engage in weird wild behavior is kinda boring to me. If I want weirdness, all I have to do is look at my kids. Or in the mirror.

The only reality television show I’ve watched in recent years is American Idol, and I stopped watching after Mormon-Face won.

(I did, however, adore The Real World, with Puck and Pedro. ZOMGBBQWTF I am dating myself.)

I’ve occasionally tuned into the Biggest Loser for a minute or two, because it makes me feel good to eat cheeseburgers and be all, “YOU KNOW YOU WANT A PIECE OF THIS, DON’T YOU, MOTHERFUCKERS?” to the poor contestants sweating of their pounds. Then I quickly switch to something MORE gruesome and dark, because that’s what I prefer.

It seems I only watch depressing, dark television shows AFTER they’ve been pulled off the air. I’m going to guess that my funk is due to the end of Prison Break, which still makes me weep.

Last year, I noticed half the blog world was doing something called “The 30 Day Shred,” a workout designed by the cute-as-a-button Jillian Michaels. Well, I thought flippantly as I ordered the workout DVD from Amazon, I bet I just lost like 7 pounds just ordering it.

I was gonna be a SHREDHEAD.

I got the DVD in the mail and stared it down, knowing that just OWNING it would make me lose a bunch of weight.

Eventually, I realized I should probably take it out of the plastic wrap and open it up. BINGO! Another 4 pounds gone, I figured, patting myself on the back heartily.

Now here’s the thing, Pranksters, I kinda love to work out. Which is probably not something you’d expect from me, but it’s true. There’s some sick part of me that loves to get all hot and sweaty and strong. So when I went to the basement (to avoid roving crotch parasites who would most certainly smack me on the ass while I worked out), I was pretty pumped to get my workout on.

I did it.

Then I did it again.

Then I did it the next day.

I felt great….for someone who couldn’t walk. My leg muscles had turned to jello, and the very act of rolling over in bed caused me to cry out in pain. Some sick part of me was awfully proud of this.

So I kept on it. Shredding my cares away.

Until, I noticed pain in a place that I couldn’t quite explain away.

My foot.

I’d hurt my foot when I’d fallen down the stairs, very early into my pregnancy with Amelia. I’d never been able to properly treat it, thanks to my gestating crotch parasite, instead, I wore Das Boot and iced it whenever possible.

(sidebar: do you KNOW how people treat you when you’re pregnant, wearing a gigantic boot? Like you’re suffering an IQ of 12. It was, quite possibly, the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced. People talking to me slowly and loudly while making it clear they thought I was mentally-challenged.)

(Dubya-Tee-Eff)

And we all know what happens when I get pregnant: I get fat. All that extra weight on my poor injured foot lead to more pain. By the end of my pregnancy, my feet had swollen so badly that I couldn’t wear shoes and the hurt one was approximately the size and shape of a cinder block.

I delivered the girl and the swelling went down, and frankly, I had bigger fish to fry than my poor ickle foot. It could have been on fire and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Last spring, when I decided to do Das Shred, it aggravated my old injury. I had to stop.

I was a #ShredFailure

Unfortunately, this injury also put a stop to my gardening abilities last year. So it’s no surprise that my garden is half-complete, my roses sadly suffering from Black Spot. I’d managed to get outside this weekend, before it got Ass Cold again, to fix some of what was left undone, but I’m actually ashamed by the state of my yard.

So, Jillian Michaels, wherever you are; you can crawl out from under your piles of money and get your pert, perky ass to my house and help me fix it.

Hey, I’ll even let you wear your green sports bra and spanky short-shorts.